The Fall
by dust on the wind
Summary: They say pride goes before a fall, and it looks like this fall is going to be a real humdinger... Colonel Hogan's last bombing run. Entry for the Writer's Anonymous One-Word Prompt Challenge - the word prompt is "fall".


_Written for the Writers Anonymous One-Word Prompt Challenge. My prompt word is "fall"._

* * *

They say pride goes before a fall, and it looks like this fall is going to be a real humdinger.

How the hell did they know? They had that mobile anti-aircraft unit waiting for us, right where I didn't expect it. Getting away from Hamburg should have been a cakewalk. As it is, we've lost contact with the rest of the squadron, and Lady's in a bad way from the flak. I've got my hands full keeping her from going into a dive, so I leave Manning to check with the rest of the crew. All four gunners and radio are okay, but he's not getting a response from the bombardier or the navigator.

"Hayes, can you hear me? Hayes? Anderson?"

Even though the flight engineer's practically breathing down my neck, I have to shout for him to hear me: "Janacek, get down there and check what's going on." Then on the intercom, which isn't much better: "Hogan to Kinchloe. You picking up anything on that receiver of yours?"

"Nothing right now, Colonel."

"Stay on it."

Janacek's back in under a minute. "They're both gone, Colonel. The whole of the nose is practically blown off."

Knowing Janacek, he's probably exaggerating, but from the way the plane's handling, and the racket coming from down there, I already had a feeling it was bad. Now I'm sure.

"Maybe they bailed out," says Manning. He doesn't believe it. Neither do I.

"What about the bombsight?" Whatever else happens, if we go down, the bombsight's got to be destroyed. No way am I letting the Germans get hold of it and figure it out.

"It's gone, too. That burst of flak must've taken the whole lot clean off. Anderson and Hayes and all." Janacek sounds pretty shaken up. He's not the only one; I've got a hollow feeling in my gut like the plane's already falling. But we're not done for yet, and I'm not letting this crew go down without a fight.

We're out of flak range now, but thanks to the barrage over Hamburg we've still got plenty of problems.

"Oil pressure's dropping in the number two engine," says Manning. A quick glance through the port window shows the casing streaked with oil, and even with everything else going on, now I'm thinking about it I can feel it, right down to my bones, the deep, pulsing vibrations of a struggling engine.

"Should we shut it down?" Manning asks.

 _He shouldn't be here_.

Why did that just come into my head? It's not like I haven't got plenty to think about. But it's there, and it won't go away. Manning should be flying his own command by now. He stayed on for one more mission as my co-pilot, and look where it's landed him.

No, don't get distracted, not now. He asked a question, think about that.

"It's a long way home, especially if we're down one engine. Number three doesn't sound too good, either. Feather it, see if it settles down."

It's not just Manning who shouldn't be here. Kinchloe only came on board at the last minute. We're lucky to have him; he's already saved our skins once, figuring out how to rig a voice transmitter on that prototype radio detector and broadcasting phoney instructions to the German fighter squadrons over Buxtehude. But he's not even part of my crew, Bailey's my radio man. If we hadn't needed a fluent German speaker to operate the new equipment, Kinchloe would be safe back at his own home base right now.

Command didn't want to use him. Black airmen aren't supposed to fly with white crews. For his own sake, I almost wish I'd listened to them.

"Kinchloe to commander." How did he know I was thinking about him? He didn't, of course. "I've just picked up a German radio transmission from pretty close by. The message is, _Eagle in sight._ "

"What d'you suppose that means?" says Janacek.

"Nothing good. You'd better man your guns." He's already getting up to the turret.

We must be close to Oldenburg by now, assuming my reckoning's any good. I was hoping that by heading west, towards the North Sea instead of the Channel, we'd avoid further trouble, but if Kinchloe's right, trouble's found us.

The whole ship shudders, and the nose dips, hard. Manning's lips are moving. I can't make out what he's saying, but chances are he's either praying, or mumbling something about how he always knew it was asking for trouble, naming a bomber _Luck Ain't No Lady_. I'm starting to come round to his way of thinking. Between the pair of us we wrestle Lady back onto something like level. Number two's shaking again, fit to come apart. It's not going to stand much of that.

"Feather it again, and shut it down."

It seems a lot quieter with one less engine, although it's loud enough to wake the dead. But she's steadied, which is something. Small comfort, since we're still losing altitude. I don't know which is a worse prospect, a long, slow fall, or a very fast one.

"Kinchloe, anything new?"

"Not yet, Colonel. Maybe that message wasn't about us."

"Yeah, maybe. But I think we all know which eagle they're after. Let's keep our eyes open, everyone. Gunners, on the alert."

We keep flying. At least, it feels like it, but the altimeter reading is going down, very gradually. This isn't so much a flight as a slow-motion air crash. Of course, whoever's out there hunting the eagle could speed things up, real soon.

I'm expecting it any second, but it still makes me jump when the word finally comes from the tail gunner: "Enemy fighters, six o'clock, level. Three of them, about two miles, closing fast."

"Four more on this side. MEs, three o'clock, high."

Messerschmidts. Just what we need.

 _Don't fire too soon. Make sure of your distance._ I don't need to say it. I can trust my gunners, and they don't let me down. I can't hear the MEs as they go past, but there's no mistaking the noise of the top turret guns above my head, or Janacek's exasperated bellow over the interphone: "For Chrissake, how am I supposed to shoot 'em if they won't keep still?"

At least Janacek's not scared any more.

"All stations, any damage?"

"Got some holes in the fuselage back here, Colonel. They came in pretty close."

"Radio, are you okay?"

"Yeah, they missed me by a couple of inches. But..."

Janacek breaks in: "Look out, they're coming back. Twelve o'clock, high."

I can see them ahead, approaching in close formation. As they get near, each unloads a short burst of gunfire, then peels off to the left or right.

I don't know if I just ducked or not, but Manning sure did, and whatever he said, it wasn't a prayer.

These guys are doing some real precision flying, our gunners won't be able to – yes! Janacek's hit the third one in line, who spins into the path of the fighter behind him. No chance of evasive action, they go down together.

How did they miss taking us with them? Somehow we've banked sharply and just got clear. Hell, I must have done it without thinking.

Manning's been hit. His face is dripping with blood.

"Where'd they get you?"

"It's not me, it's the goddamned hydraulics. They busted the line wide open, right next to me." I've never seen him so angry. With his gloved hand he wipes his face, smearing away what I now recognise as hydraulic fluid, then gestures out to the starboard wing. "Looks like the number three engine's on fire."

Any other time, that'd be a big deal.

"Tail gunner to commander. We had 'em coming in from four o'clock, same time as the others. The right stabiliser's shot to hell."

"Left waist gunner. We've got a fire in the radio compartment, and Trevor's been shot in the leg. He's losing blood fast."

"Fire's under control, Colonel. Well, almost," says Bailey. His voice sounds strained. Did he get hit, too? If he did, he's not saying.

That's two passes, and a hell of a lot of damage. One more attack should just about end it. How are we supposed to take evasive action, when we've barely got control of the plane? Those fighters'll be back any second now.

Any second.

Won't they?

"What's happened? Why aren't they coming back?" says Manning, peering up and around as if expecting the MEs to be hiding somewhere in the clear sky.

Bailey answers: "I think that was Kinchloe's doing. He got onto their signal, pretended to be their ground controller, and started giving orders in German."

"Uh, yeah." Kinchloe's kind of hesitant, like he's been caught out doing something wrong. "I told them this plane's just a decoy, and the genuine Eagle is over Langenhagen, heading south. Then I jammed the signal. Seeing as we're pretty shot up, they probably didn't think it was worth hanging round to finish us off. I guess they'll figure it out, once they get to Langenhagen and don't find us, but it'll take them a while."

If the situation wasn't so dire, I'd be laughing. An entire squadron of ace German fighter pilots on an eagle hunt, and he's just sent them off on a wild goose chase. "Gives us some breathing space, anyway. I guess you make a pretty convincing German, Kinchloe."

"As long as they can't see me, anyway." He's trying not to laugh, too. I'm starting to really like this guy. Why have I never met him before?

Okay, forget that question. I already know the answer.

Kinchloe's bought us some time, but Manning gives me a sideways look. No right stabiliser, no hydraulics, one engine down and another one in flames. We're not going to make it.

I nod, and reach for the alarm bell button. Three short rings.

Janacek tumbles down out of the turret. "We bailing out?"

"Yeah. Get your chute, and stand by your exit."

My own chute's right next to me, but I'm too busy trying to keep Lady on the level to reach for it. Manning manages to get into his, and looks at me. "You'd better get ready, Colonel. I'll take the controls."

"I've got it. Go and stand by with Janacek. I'll be right behind you."

Manning stares for a few precious seconds. "No. I'm not going till you do...sir."

He means it.

"Okay. Keep her steady."

Funny how small the cockpit is. I never noticed it before, but I can't get the chute on without hitting my head on the roof and whacking an elbow on the bulkhead. Whoever designed this plane must have been a midget.

We're running out of time. I open the bomb bay doors, and give one long ring on the alarm bell, signalling the crew to bail out. Now it's each man for himself. Manning's engaged the autopilot. It won't prevent the inevitable, but it should keep Lady going long enough for us to get clear. At least, I hope so.

We have to go, but I hold on, just a moment longer. It's crazy, but now it's come to it, I don't want to leave her. Manning tugs at my sleeve. He won't go without me, but he wants out.

"All right, let's go." I don't think he can hear me, but he moves on the word. I let go the controls. Lady judders, but she holds her trajectory. She's going to give us as much time as she can.

The bomb bay is wide open, and Janacek's already gone. At the other end of the catwalk I can see two men. Kinchloe and Bailey. It looks like Bailey took a hit after all, Kinchloe's supporting him. They stagger a little as the plane rocks, then Kinchloe regains his balance, steadies Bailey, and pushes him out.

Manning's gone, too. Only two of us left. Across the empty bomb bay, I meet Kinchloe's eyes, and at the same time, we jump.

The chute opens. At the edge of my vision I can see a couple of the crew, but I can't take my eyes away from Lady. She's banking, and the burning starboard engine makes a curving trail of smoke which tightens as she spirals into her final dive. At the last second, I turn my head.

Lady's fall is over. Mine's just started, and there's no way of knowing how it's going to end.

* * *

 _Notes:_

 _The prototype radio equipment Kinchloe is operating is loosely inspired by the "Air Borne Cigar" radio detection and jamming system, which wasn't actually put into operation until a later stage in the war, by the RAF._

 _"Black airmen aren't supposed to fly with white crews." Regrettably, as far as the USAAF was concerned, this is historically true._


End file.
